Her eyes were burning and her eyelids2 were heavy. She went into her dressing-room and bathed her face in cold water. Then she combed her hair and fastened it up with a big gold pin. And then she put on a gown of black wool, richly trimmed with jet, a morning street costume. Was she going out? She did not know. She dressed herself in obedience3 to the necessity which women feel at certain hours of the day to occupy themselves with their toilets. But when she came to fasten her brooch, a clover leaf set with black pearls, that Laura had given her for a wedding-present, she discovered that one of the pearls was gone. The clover-leaf brings luck, but now this one was broken, and its power was gone.
Eleven o'clock struck, and somebody tapped discreetly4 at the door. She could not find her voice, to answer.
The knock was repeated.
"Come in," she said feebly.
Cesare entered, calm and composed, carrying his hat and ebony walking-stick in his hand.
"Good-morning. Are you going out?" he asked tranquilly5.
"No. I don't know," she answered, with a vague gesture.
All her nerves were tingling6, as she looked at the traitor's handsome, wasted face, a face so quiet and smiling.
"You had something to say to me?" he reminded her, wrinkling his brow a little.
"Yes."
"I came home late. I didn't want to disturb you," he said, producing a cigarette, and asking permission with a glance to light it.
"You would not have disturbed me."
"I suppose it's nothing of much importance."
"It's a thing of great importance, Cesare."
"As usual," he said, with the shadow of a smile.
"I swear to you by the memory of my mother that nothing is more important."
"Goodness gracious! Act three, scene four!" he exclaimed ironically.
"Scene last," she said, dully, tearing a few beads7 from her dress, and fingering them.
"So much the better, if we are near the end. The play was rather long, my dear." He was tapping his boot with his walking-stick.
"We will cut it short, Cesare. I have a favour to ask of you. Will you grant it?"
"Ask, oh lovely lady; and in spite of the fact that last night you closed your door upon me, here I am, ready to serve you."
"I have a favour to ask, Cesare."
"Ask it, then, before I go out."
"I want to make a long journey with you—to be gone a year."
"A second honeymoon8? The like was never known."
"A journey of a year, do you understand? Take me as your travelling companion, your friend, your servant. For a year, away from here, far away."
"Taking with us our sister, our governess, our dog, our cat, and the whole menagerie?"
"We two alone," she said.
"Ah," said he.
"What is your decision?"
"I will think about it."
"No. You must decide at once."
"What's the hurry? Are we threatened with an epidemic9?"
"Decide now."
"Then I decide—no," he said.
"And why?" she asked, turning pale.
"Because I won't."
"Tell me your reason."
"I don't wish to travel."
"You have always enjoyed travelling."
"Well, I enjoy it no more. I am tired, I am old, I will stay at home."
"I implore10 you, let us go away, far from here."
"But why do you want to go away?"
"Listen. Don't ask me. Say yes."
"Why do you want to go away, Anna?"
"Because, I want to go. Do me the favour."
"Is my lady flying from some danger that threatens her virtue11? From some unhappy love?"
"There's something more than my virtue in danger. I am flying from an unhappy love, Cesare," she said gravely, shutting her eyes.
"Heavens! And am I to mix myself up in these tragical13 complications? No, Anna, no, I sha'n't budge14."
"Is there no prayer that can move you. Will you always answer no?"
"I shall always say no."
"Even if I begged you at the point of death?"
"Fortunately your health is excellent," he rejoined, smiling slightly.
"We may all die—from one moment to another," she answered, simply. "Let us go away together, Cesare."
"I have said no, and I mean no, Anna. Don't try to change me. You know it's useless."
"Then will you grant me another favour? This one you will grant."
"Let's hear it."
"Let us go and live alone in the palace in Via Gerolimini."
"In that ugly house?"
"Let us live there alone together."
"Alone? How do you mean?"
"Alone, you and I."
"Without Laura?"
"Without Laura."
"Ah," he said.
She looked at him pleadingly, and in her brown eyes he must have been able to read the sorrowful truth. But he had no pity; he would not spare her the bitter confession15 of it.
"Be frank," he said, with some severity. "You wish to separate from your sister!"
"Yes."
"And why? Tell me the reason."
"I can't tell you. I wish to separate from Laura."
"When?"
"At once. To-day."
"Indeed? Have you had a quarrel? I'll be peacemaker."
"I doubt it," she said, with a strange smile.
"If you'll tell me what you've quarrelled about, I'll make peace between you."
"But why do you ask these questions and make these offers? I want to separate from my sister. That is all."
"And I don't wish to," he said, looking coldly into his wife's eyes.
"You don't wish to be parted from Laura!" she cried, feeling her feet giving way beneath her.
"I don't indeed."
"Then I will go away myself, she cried, her brain reeling.
"Do as you like," he answered, calmly.
"Oh, heaven help me," she murmured, under her breath, staggering, losing all her strength.
"Now we have come to the fainting-fit," said Cesare, looking at her scornfully, "and so will end this scene of stupid jealousy16."
"What jealousy! Who has spoken of jealousy?" she asked haughtily18.
"Must I inform you that you have done nothing else for the past half-hour! It strikes me that you have lost the little good sense you ever had. And I give you notice that I'm not going to make myself ridiculous on your account."
"You wish to stay with Laura!"
"Not only I, but you too. For the sake of the world's opinion, as well as for our own sakes, we can't desert the girl. She's been confided19 to our protection. It would be a scandal which I'll not permit you to make. If I have to suffer a hundred deaths, I'll not allow you to make a scandal. Do you understand!"
She looked at him, changing colour, feeling that her last hope was escaping her.
"And then," he went on, "I don't know your reasons for not wishing to live any longer with your sister. She's good, she's well-behaved, she's serious; she gives you no trouble; you have no right to find fault with her. It's one of your whims—it's your everlasting20 desire to be unhappy. Anyhow, your idiotic21 caprice will soon enough be gratified. Laura will soon be married."
"Do you wish Laura to marry!"
"I wish it earnestly."
"You'll be glad of it!"
"Most glad," he answered, smiling.
Ah, in the days of her womanly innocence22, before her mind had been opened to the atrocious revelations of their treason, she would not have understood the import of that answer and that smile; but she knew now the whole depth of human wickedness. He smiled, and curled his handsome black moustaches. Anna lost her head.
"Then you are more infamous23 than Laura," she cried.
"The vocabulary of Othello," he cried, calmly. "But, you know, it has been proved that Othello was epileptic."
"And he killed Desdemona," said Anna.
"Does it strike you that I look like Desdemona?"
"Not you, not you."
"And who then?"
"Laura."
"Your folly24 is becoming dangerous, Anna."
"Imminently25, terribly dangerous, Cesare."
"Fortunately you take it out in words, not in actions," he concluded, smiling.
She wrung26 her hands.
"Last night Laura owed her life to a miracle," she said.
"But what has been going on here?" he exclaimed, agitated27, rising to his feet. "And where is Laura?"
"Oh, fear nothing, fear nothing on her account. I've not harmed her. She's alive. She's well. She's very well. No wrinkle troubles her beauty, no anxiety disturbs her mind. Fear nothing. She is a sacred person. Your love protects her. Listen, Cesare; she was here last night alone in this room with me; and I had over her the right given me by heaven, given me by men; and I did not kill her."
Cesare had turned slightly pale; that was all.
"And if it is permitted to talk in your own high-sounding rhetoric28, what was the ground of your right to kill her?" he asked, looking at the handle of his walking-stick, and emphasising the disdainful you.[F]
"Laura has betrayed me. She's in love with you."
"Nothing but this was lacking! That Laura should be in love with me! I'm glad to hear it. You are sure of it? It's an important matter for my vanity. Are you sure of it?"
"Don't jeer29 at me, Cesare. You don't realise what you are doing. Don't smile like that. Don't drive me to extremes."
"There are two of you in love with me—for I suppose you still love me, don't you? It's a family misfortune. But since you both adore me, it's probably not my fault."
"Cesare, Cesare!"
"And confess that I did nothing to win you."
"You have betrayed me, Cesare. You are in love with Laura."
"Are you sure of it?"
"Sure, Cesare."
"But bear in mind that certainties are somewhat rare in this world. For the past few minutes I've been examining myself, to discover if indeed I had in my soul a guilty passion for Laura. Perhaps I am mad about her, without knowing it. But you, who are an expert in these affairs, you are sure of it. Have the goodness to explain to me, oh, passionate31 Signora Dias, in what manner I have betrayed you, loving your sister. Describe to me the whole blackness of my treason. Tell me in what my—infamy32—consists. Wasn't it infamy you called it? I'm not learned in the language of the heart."
"Oh, God! oh, God!" sobbed34 Anna, her face buried in her hands, horrified35 at what she heard and saw.
"I hope we've not to pass the morning invoking36 the Lord, the Virgin37, and the Saints. What do you suppose they care for your idiocy38, Anna? They are too wise; and I should be wiser if I cared nothing for it, either. But when your rhetoric casts a slur39 upon others, it can't be overlooked. I beg you, Signora Dias, to do your husband the kindness of stating your accusations40 precisely41. Set forth42 the whole atrocity43 of his conduct. I fold my hands, and sit here on this chair like a king on his judgment-seat. I wait, only adding that you have already used up a good deal of my patience."
"But has Laura told you nothing?"
"Nothing, my dear lady."
"Where is she?"
"She's gone to church, I hear."
"Quietly gone to church?"
"Do you fancy that all women dance in perpetual convulsions to the tune30 of their sentiments, Signora Dias? No, for the happiness of men, no. Our dear and wise Minerva has gone to mass, for to-day is Sunday."
"With that horrible sin on her conscience! Does she think she can lie even to God? But it's a sacrilege."
"Ah, we're to have a mystical drama, a passion-play now, are we? Dear lady, I see that you have nothing to say to me, and I make my adieux."
He started to go, but she barred the way to him.
"Don't go, Cesare; don't leave me. Since you will have it so, you shall hear from my lips, though they tremble with horror in pronouncing it, the story of your infamy. I will repeat it to you to-day as I repeated it to Laura last night; and I hope it may burn in your heart as it burns in mine. Ah, you laugh; you have the boldness to laugh. You treat this talk as a joke. You sneer44 at my anger. You would like to get away from me. I annoy you. My voice wearies you. And what I have to say to you will perhaps bring a blush of shame even to your face, corrupt45 man that you are. But you cannot leave me. You are obliged to remain here. You must give me an account of your betrayal. Ah, don't smile, don't smile; that will do no good; your smile can't turn me aside. I won't allow you to leave me. Remember, Cesare, remember what you did last evening. Remember and be ashamed. Remember how cruel, how wicked, how atrocious it was, what happened last evening between you and my sister. Under my eyes Cesare, and for long minutes, so that I could have no doubt. I could not imagine that I was mad or dreaming. I saw it all, my ears heard the words you spoke17, the sound of your kisses, your long kisses. I could not doubt. Oh, how horrible it is for a woman who loves to see the proof that she is betrayed! What new, unknown capacities for sorrow open in her soul! Oh, what have you done to me, Cesare, you whom I adored! You and my sister Laura, what have you done to me!"
She fell into a chair, crushing her temples between her hands.
"Is it your habit to listen at doors? It's not considered good form," said Cesare coldly.
"Do you wish me to die, Cesare? How could you forget that I loved you, that I had given you my youth, my beauty, all my heart, all my soul, that I adored you with every breath, that you alone were the reason for my being? You have forgotten all this, forgotten that I live only for you, my love—you have forgotten it?"
"These sentiments do you honour, though they're somewhat exaggerated. Buy a book of manners, and learn that it's not the thing to listen at doors."
"It was my right to listen, do you understand? I was defending my love, my happiness, my all; but the terrible thing I saw has destroyed for ever everything I cared for."
"Did you really see such a terrible thing?" he asked, smiling.
"If I should live a thousand years, nothing could blot46 it from my mind. Oh, I shall die, I shall die; I can only forget it by dying."
"You are suffering from cerebral47 dilatation. It was nothing but a harmless scene of gallantry—it was a jest, Anna."
"Laura said that she loved you. I heard her."
"Of course, girls of her age always say they're in love."
"She kissed you, Cesare. I saw her."
"And what of that? Girls of her age are fond of kissing. They're none the worse for it."
"She was in your arms, Cesare, and for so long a time that to me it seemed a century."
"It's not a bad place, you know, Signora Dias," he responded, smiling.
"Oh, how low, how monstrous48! And you, Cesare, you told her that you loved her. I heard you."
"A man always loves a little the woman that is with him. Besides, I couldn't tell her that I hated her; it would scarcely have been polite. I know my book of manners. There's at least one member of our family who preserves good form."
"Cesare, you kissed her."
"I'd defy you to have done otherwise, if you'd been a man. You don't understand these matters."
"On the lips, Cesare."
"It's my habit. It's not a custom of my invention, either. It's rather old. I suspect it took its rise with Adam and Eve."
"But she's a young girl, an innocent young girl, Cesare."
"Girls are not so innocent as they used to be, Anna. I assure you the world is changing."
"She is my sister, Cesare."
"That's a circumstance quite without importance. Relationship counts for nothing."
She looked at him with an expression of intense disgust.
"You, then, Cesare," she said, "have no sense of the greatness of this infamy. She at least, Laura, the other guilty person, turned pale, was troubled, trembled with passion and with terror. You—no! Here you have been for an hour absolutely imperturable; not a shade of emotion has crossed your brazen49 face; your voice hasn't changed; you feel no fear, no love, no shame; you are not even surprised. She at least shuddered51 and cried out; she is an Acquaviva! It is true that, though she saw my anger and my despair, she had neither pity nor compunction, but her passion for you, at least, was undisguised. She had feeling, strength, will. But you—no. You, like her, indeed, could see me weep my heart out, could see me convulsed by the most unendurable agony, and have not an ounce of pity for me; but your hardness does not spring, like hers, from love; no, no; from icy indifference52. You are as heartless as a tombstone. She, at least, has the courage, the audacity53, the effrontery54 of her wickedness; she declares boldly that she loves you, that she adores you, that she will never cease to love you, that she will always adore you. She is my sister. In her heart there is the same canker that is in mine—a canker from which we are both dying. You—no! Love? Passion? Not even an illusion. Nothing but a harmless scene of gallantry! A half-hour of amusing flirtation56, without consequence! But what does it mean, then, to say that we love? Is it a lie that a man feels justified57 in telling any woman? And what is a kiss? A fugitive58 contact of the lips, immediately forgotten? So many false kisses are given in the course of a day and night! Nonsense, triviality, rubbish! It's bad form to spy at doors; its exaggeration to call a thing infamous; it's madness to be jealous. And the sin that you have committed, instead of originating in passion, which might in some degree excuse it, you reduce to an every-day vulgarity, a commonplace indecency; my sister becomes a vulgar flirt55, you a vulgar seducer59, and I a vulgar termagant screaming out her morbid60 jealousy. The whole affair falls into the mud. My sister's guilty love, your caprice, my despair, all are in the mud, among the most disgusting human garbage, where there is no spiritual light, no cry of sorrow, where everything is permissible61, where the man expires and the beast triumphs. Do you know what you are, Cesare?"
"No, I don't know. But if you can tell me, I shall be indebted for the favour."
"You are a man without heart, without conscience; a soul without greatness and without enthusiasm; you are a lump of flesh, exhausted62 by unworthy pleasures and morbid desires. You are a ruin, in heart, in mind, in senses; you belong to the class of men who are rotten; you fill me with fright and with pity. I did not know that I was giving my hand to a corpse63 scented64 with heliotrope65, that I was uniting my life to the mummy of a gentleman, whose vitiated senses could not be pleased by a young, beautiful, and loving wife, but must crave66 her sister, her pure, chaste67, younger sister! Have you ever loved, Cesare? Have you ever for a moment felt the immensity of real love? In your selfishness you have made an idol68 of yourself, an idol without greatness. A thing without viscera, without pulses, without emotion! You are corrupt, perverted69, depraved, even to the point of betraying your wife who adores you, with her sister whom you do not love! Ah, you are a coward, a dastard70; that's what you are, a dastard!"
She wrung her hands and beat her temples, pacing the room as a madwoman paces her cell. But not a tear fell from her eyes, not a sob33 issued from her breast.
He stood still, his face impenetrable; not one of her reproaches had brought a trace of colour to it. She threw herself upon a sofa, exhausted; but her eyes still burned and her lips trembled.
"Now that you have favoured me with so amiable71 a definition of myself," said he, "permit me to attempt one of you."
His tone was so icy, he pronounced the words so slowly, that Anna knew he was preparing a tremendous insult. Instinctively72, obeying the blind anger of her love, she repeated, "You are a dastard; that's what you are, a dastard."
"My dear, you are a bore—that's what you are."
"What do you say?" she asked, not understanding.
"You're a bore, my dear."
The insult was so atrocious, that for the first time in the course of their talk her eyes filled with tears, and a sigh burst from her lips—lips that were purple, like those of a dying child. It seemed as if something had broken in her heart.
"Nothing but a bore. I don't employ high-sounding words, you see. I speak the plain truth. You're a bore."
Another sigh, a sigh of insupportable physical pain, as if the hard word bore had cut her flesh, like a knife.
"You flatter yourself that you're a woman of grand passions," he went on, after looking at his watch, and giving a little start of surprise to see how much time he had wasted here. "No? You flatter yourself that you're a creature of impulse, a woman with a fate, a woman destined73 to a tragic12 end; and to satisfy this notion, you complicate74 and embroil75 and muddle76 up your own existence, and mortally bore those who are about you. With your rhetoric, your tears, your sobs77, your despair, your interminable letters, your livid face and your gray lips, you're enough to bore the very saints in heaven."
He pretended not to see her imploring78 eyes, which had suddenly lost their anger, and were craving79 mercy.
"Remember all the stupidities you've committed in the past four or five years," he went on, "and all the annoyance80 you've given us. You were a handsome girl, rich, with a good name. You might have married any one of a dozen men of your own age, your own rank, gentlemen, who were in love with you. That would have been sensible, orderly; you would have been as happy as happy can be. But what! Anna Acquaviva, the romantic heroine, condescend81 to be happy! No, no. That were beneath her! So you had to fancy yourself in love with a beggar whom you couldn't marry."
She made a gesture, as if to defend Giustino Morelli.
"Oh, did you really love him? Thanks for the compliment; you're charming this morning. Passion, inequality of position, drama, flight into Egypt, fortunately without a child—forgive the impropriety, but it escaped me. Morelli, chancing to be a decent fellow, Morelli ran away, poor devil! and our heroine treated herself to the luxury of a mortal illness. We, Laura, I, everybody, were bored by the flight, bored by the illness. The lesson was a severe one, and most women would have been cured of their inclination82 towards the theatrical83, as well as of their scarlet84 fever. But not so Anna Acquaviva. It didn't matter to her that she had risked her reputation, her honour; it didn't matter to her that she had staked the name of her family; all this only excited her imagination. And, behold85, she begins her second romance, her second drama, her second tragedy, and enter upon the scene, to be bored to death, Signor Cesare Dias!"
"Oh, Holy Virgin, help me," murmured Anna, pressing her hands to her temples.
"Dramatic love for Cesare Dias, an old man, a man who has never gone in for passion, who doesn't wish to go in for it, who is tired of all such bothersome worries. Anna Acquaviva gives herself up to an unrequited love, 'one of the most desolating86 experiences of the soul'—that's a phrase I found in one of your letters. Desolation, torture, spasms87, despair, bitterness, these are the words which our ill-fated heroine, Anna Acquaviva, employs to depict88 her condition to herself and to others. And Cesare Dias, who had arranged his life in a way not to be bored and not to bore anyone, Cesare Dias, who is an entirely89 common and ordinary person, happy in his mediocrity, suddenly finds himself against his will dragged upon the scene as hero! He is the man of mysteries, the man who will not love or who loves another, the superior man, the neighbour of the stars. And nevertheless we find a means of boring him."
"Ah, Cesare, Cesare, Cesare!" she said, beseeching90 compassion91.
"Imbecile ought to be added to the name of Cesare Dias. That's the title which I best deserve. Only an imbecile—and I was one for half-an-hour—could have ceded92 to your sentimental93 hysterics. I was an imbecile. But to let you die, to complete your tragedy of unrequited love——"
"Oh, why didn't you let me die?" she cried.
"I believe it would have been as well for many of us. What a comfort for you, dear heroine, to die consumed by an unhappy passion! Gaspara Stampa, Properzia de' Rossi, and other illustrious ladies of ancient times, with whose names you have favoured me in your letters, would have found their imitator. I'm sure you would have died blessing94 me."
Bowing her head, she sighed deeply, as if she were indeed dying.
"Instead of letting you die, I went through the dismal95 farce96 of marrying you. And I assure you that I've never ceased to regret it. I regretted it the very minute after I'd made you my idiotic proposal. Ah, well, every man has his moments of inexplicable97 weakness, and he pays dearly for them. And marriage, alas98, hasn't proved a sentimental comedy. With your pretentions to passion, to love, to mutual99 adoration100, you've bored me even more than I expected."
"But what, then, is marriage from your point of view?" she cried.
"A bothersome obligation, when a man marries a woman like you."
"You would have preferred my sister?" she asked, exasperated101. But she was at once sorry for this vulgarity; and he speedily punished it.
"Yes, I should have preferred your sister. She's not a bore. I find her extremely diverting."
"She loved you from the beginning," she says. "A pity she didn't tell you so."
"A pity. I assure you I should have married her."
"Ah, very well."
But suddenly she raised her eyes to her husband; and at the sight of that beloved person her courage failed her. She took his hand, and said, "Ah, Cesare, Cesare, you are right. But I loved you, I loved you, and you have deceived me with my sister."
"Signora Dias, you have rather a feeble memory," he returned, icily, drawing his hand away.
"How do you mean?"
"I mean that you easily forget. We are face to face; you can't lie. Have I ever told you that I loved you?"
"No—never," she admitted, closing her eyes agonised to have to admit it.
"Have I ever promised to love you?"
"No—never."
"Well, then, according to the laws of love, I've not deceived you, my dear Anna. My heart has never belonged to you, therefore it's not been taken from you. I promised nothing, therefore I owe you nothing."
"It's true. You're right, Cesare," she said; draining this new cup of bitterness that he had distilled102 for her.
"Perhaps you will speak to me of the laws of the land. Very good; according to the law a man and wife are required to be mutually faithful. A magistrate103 would say that I had betrayed you. But consider a little. Make an effort of memory, Anna, and recall the agreement I proposed to you that evening at Sorrento, before committing my grand blunder. I told you that I wished to remain absolutely free, free as a bachelor; and you consented. Is it true or not true?"
"It is true. I consented."
"I told you that I would tolerate no interference on your part with my relations with other women; and remember, Anna, you consented. Is that true or untrue?"
"It is true," she said, feeling that she was falling into an abyss.
"You see, therefore, that neither according to the laws of love nor according to the laws of marriage have I betrayed you. And if you had a conscience, to adopt your own phraseology, if you had the least loyalty104, you would at once confess that I have not betrayed you. You accepted the whole bargain. I am free in heart, and at liberty to do as I like. I have not betrayed you. Confess it."
"Cesare, Cesare, be human, be Christian105; don't require me to say that."
"Tragedies are one thing, and truth is another, Anna. I desire to establish the fact that I haven't betrayed you, my dear. For what I did last night, for what I may have done on any other night, for what I may do any night in the future, I have your own permission. Confess it."
"I can't say that, do you understand?" she cried. "Oh, you are always in the right; you always know how to put yourself in the right. You are right in your selfishness, in your perfidy106, in your wickedness, in your frightful107 corruption108; you were right in proposing that disgraceful bargain to me, which I was not ashamed to accept, and which you to-day so justly and so appropriately remind me of. But I believed that to love, to adore a man as I loved and adored you, would be a charm to conquer with; and I have lost. For you are stronger than I; indifference is stronger than love; selfishness is stronger than passion. Generous abandonment cannot overcome the refined calculation of a corrupt man. I am wrong, I alone, I confess it—since I loved you to the point of dying for you, since I imagined that that was enough, since I had in my soul the divine hope of winning you by my love. I am wrong, I confess it; yes, I confess it. I cannot love nor hate nor live. I am nothing but a bore, a superfluous109 person, and a tiresome110; it is true; it is true. Say it again."
"If you wish it, I will."
"You are right. You are always right. I have done nothing but blunder. I have always obeyed the mad impulses of my heart. I fled from my home. I ought not to have loved you, and I loved you. I loved you; I have bored you; and I myself, of my free will, gave you permission to betray me. You are the most vicious man I know. You're unredeemed by a thought or a feeling. You horrify111 me. Under the same roof with your wife, you have committed an odious112 sin—a sin that would make the worst men shudder50. And I can't punish you, because I consented to it; because I debased the dignity of my love before you; because indeed I am a cowardly and infamous creature. See how right you are! You have sinned, but so far as I am concerned you are innocent. I am infamous and cowardly, because I ought to have died rather than accept that loathsome113 bargain. Forgive me if I have upbraided114 you. I'll ask Laura's pardon too. No human being is soiled with an infamy so great as mine. Forgive me."
Perhaps he felt in these words the confusion of madness; perhaps he saw the light of madness in her eyes. But he was unmoved. She was a woman who had led him into committing a folly, who had bored him, and, what was more, who would like to continue to bore him in the future. He was unmoved. He was glad to have got the better of her in this struggle. He was unmoved. He thought it time to leave her, if he would retain his advantage.
"Good-bye, Anna," he said, rising.
"Don't go away, don't go away," she cried, throwing herself before him.
"Do you imagine that this duet is pleasing?" he asked, drawing on his gloves. "For the rest, we've said all there is to say. I can't think you have any more insults to favour me with."
"You hate me, do you?"
"No, I don't hate you exactly."
"Don't go away. Don't go away. I must tell you something very serious."
"Good-bye, Anna," he repeated, moving towards the door.
"Cesare, if you go away, I shall do something desperate," she cried, convulsively tearing her hair.
"You'd be incapable115. To do anything desperate one must have talent. And you're a fool," he replied, smiling ironically.
"Cesare, if you go away, I shall die."
"Bah, bah, you'll not die. To die one must have courage." And he opened the door and went out.
She ran to the threshold. He was already at a distance. She heard the street door close behind him. For a few minutes she stood there, fearing to move lest she should fall; then mechanically she turned back. She went to her looking-glass, repaired the disorder116 of her hair, and put on a hat, a black veil, and a sealskin cloak. She forgot nothing. Her pocket-handkerchief was in her muff; in her hand she carried her card-case of carved Japanese ivory.
At last she left her room, and entered her husband's. A servant was putting it in order; but, seeing his mistress, he bowed and took himself off. She was alone there, in the big brown chamber117, in the gray winter daylight. She went to her husband's desk, and sat down before it, as if she were going to write. But, after a moment's thought, she did not write. She opened a drawer, took something from it, and concealed118 it in her pocket.
After that, she passed through the house and out into the street.
She crossed the Piazza Vittoria, and entered the Villa119 Nazionale. Children were playing by the fountain, and she stopped for a moment to look at them. Twice she made the tour of the Villa; then she looked at her watch; then she seated herself on one of the benches. There were very few people abroad. The damp earth was covered with dead leaves.
She fixed120 her eyes upon the dial of her watch, counting the minutes and the seconds. All at once she put her hand into her pocket, and felt the thing that she had hidden there.
Anna rose. It was two o'clock.
She left the Villa, walking towards the Chiatamone. Before the door of a little house in the Via del Chiatamone she stopped. She hesitated for a moment; then she lifted the bronze knocker, and let it fall.
The door was opened by Luigi Caracciolo.
He did not speak. He took her hand, and drew her into the house.
They crossed two antechambers, hung with old tapestries121, ornamented122 with ancient and modern arms, and with big Delft vases filled with growing palms, a smoking-room furnished with rustic123 Swiss chairs and tables, and entered a drawing-room. The curtains were drawn124, the lamps lighted. The floor and the walls were covered with Oriental carpets; the room was full of beautiful old Italian furniture, statues, pictures, bronzes. There were many flowers about, red and white roses, subtly perfumed.
Caracciolo took a bunch of roses, and gave them to Anna.
"Dear Anna—my dear love," he said.
A faint colour came to her cheeks.
"What is it? Tell me, Anna. Dear one, dear one!"
"Don't speak to me like that," she said.
"Do I offend you? I can't think that I offend you—I who feel for you the deepest tenderness, the most absolute devotion."
He took her hands.
"It is dark here," she said.
"The day was so sad, the daylight was so melancholy125. I have waited for you so many hours, Anna."
"I have come, you see."
"Thank you for having remembered your faithful servant." And delicately he kissed her gloved hand.
"Why not open the curtains a little?" she asked.
He drew aside his curtains, and let in the ashen126 light. She went to the window, and looked out upon the sea.
"Anna, Anna, come away. Somebody might see you."
"It doesn't matter."
"But I can't allow you to compromise yourself, Anna; I love you too much."
"I have come here to compromise myself," she said.
"Then—you love me a little?" he demanded, trying to draw her away from the window.
She did not answer. She sat down in an arm-chair.
"Tell me that you love me a little, Anna."
"I don't love you."
"Dear Anna, dear Anna," he murmured with his caressing127 voice, "how can I believe you, since you are here. Tell me that you love me a little. For three years I have waited for that word. Dear Anna, sweet Anna, you know that I have adored you for so long a time. Anna, Anna!"
"What has happened was bound to happen," she said.
"Anna, I conjure128 you,[G] tell me that you love me."
She shuddered as she heard him use the familiar pronoun.
"Do you love me?"
"I don't know. I know nothing."
"Dear one, dear one," he murmured, trembling with hope, in an immense transport of love.
He drew nearer to her and kissed her on the cheek.
A cry of pain burst from her, and she sprang up, horrified, terrified, and tried to leave the room.
"Oh, for mercy's sake, forgive me. Don't go away. Anna, Anna, forgive me if I have offended you. I love you so! If you go away I shall die."
"People don't die for such slight things."
"People die of love."
"Yes. But one must have courage to die."
"Don't let us talk of these dismal things. My love, we mustn't talk of things that will sadden you. Your beautiful face is troubled. Tell me that you forgive me. Do you forgive me?"
"I forgive you."
"I don't believe it. You don't forgive me. You love another."
"No, no—no other."
"And Cesare?"
But scarcely had he spoken the fatal name when he saw his error. Her eyes blazed; she trembled from head to foot, in a nervous convulsion.
"Listen," she said. "If you have a heart, if you have any pity, if you wish me to stay here with you, never name him again, never name him."
"You are right." But then he added, "And yet you loved him, you love him still."
"No. I love no one any more."
"Why would you not accept me when I proposed for you?"
"Because."
"Why did you marry that old man?"
"Because."
"And now why do you love him? Why do you love him?"
"I don't know."
"You see, you do love him," he cried in despair.
"Oh, God, oh, God!" she sobbed.
"Oh, I am a fool. Forgive me, forgive me. But I love you, and I lose my head. I love you, and I am desperate. And I need to know if you still love him. You will always love him? Is it so?"
"Till death," she said, with a strange look and accent.
"Say it again."
"Till death," she repeated, with the same strange intonation129.
They were silent.
Luigi Caracciolo put his arm round her waist, and drew her slowly towards him.
Her eyes were fixed and void. She did not feel his arms about her. She did not feel his kisses. He kissed her hair, he kissed her sweet white throat, he kissed her little rosy130 ear. Anna was absorbed in a desperate meditation131, far from all human things. He kissed her face, her eyes, her lips; she did not know it. But suddenly she felt his embrace become closer, stronger; she heard his voice change, it was no longer tender and caressing, it was fervid132 with tumultuous passion, it uttered confused delirious133 words. Silently, looking at him with burning eyes, she tried to disengage herself.
"Let me go," she said.
"Anna, Anna, I love you so—I have loved you so long!"
"Let me go, let me go!"
"You are my adored one—I adore you above all things."
"Let me go. You horrify me."
He let her go.
"But what have you come here for?" he asked, sorrowfully.
"I have come to commit an infamy."
"Anna, Anna, you are killing134 me!"
She looked at him fixedly135.
"What is it, Anna? Something is troubling you, and you won't tell me what it is. My poor friend! You have come here with an anguish136 in your heart, wishing to escape from it; you have come here to weep; and I have behaved like a brute137, a blackguard."
"No, you are good, I shall remember you," and she gave him her hand.
"Don't go away. Tell me first what it is. Tell me what you came for. Tell me, dearest Anna."
"It's too long a story, too long," she said, as if in a dream, passing her hand over her brow. "And now I must go, I must go."
"No, stop here, talk to me, weep. It will do you good."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"My minutes are numbered. You'll understand some day—to-morrow. Now I must go."
"Anna, how can I let you go like this? You have come here to be comforted, and I have treated you shamefully138. Forgive me."
"You are not to blame, not in the least."
"But what is it that you are in trouble about, Anna? Who has been making you miserable139, my poor fond soul? Whose fault is it? Who is to blame? Cesare?"
"No, I am to blame, I only."
"And Cesare—you admit it."
"No."
"Cesare is an infamous scoundrel, and I know it," he exclaimed.
"It is I who am infamous."
"I don't believe you. I should believe no one who said that, Anna."
"I must be infamous, since I alone am unhappy. I must go."
"Will you come back?—to-morrow? Anna, you are so sad, you are in such distress140, I can't let you go."
"No one can detain me, no one."
"Anna, forget that I have spoken to you of love."
"I have forgotten it. Good-bye."
"You musn't go like this. You are too much agitated."
"No, I am calm. Listen, will you do me a favour? You repeated some verses to me one evening at Sorrento—some French verses—do you remember?"
"Yes. Baudelaire's 'Harmonie du Soir,'" he answered, surprised by her question.
"Have you the volume?"
"Yes."
"Take it, and copy that poem for me. Afterwards I will say good-bye."
He went into his library and brought back Les Fleurs du Mal. He seated himself at his writing-table, and looked at Anna. There was an expression of such immense sorrow in her eyes, that he faltered141, and asked, "Shall I write?"
She bowed her head. While he was writing the first lines, Anna turned her back to him. She put her hand into her pocket and brought forth a little shining object of ivory and steel. He in a low voice repeated the verse he was writing—"Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige"—when suddenly there was the report of a pistol, and a little cloud of smoke rose towards the ceiling.
Anna had shot herself through the heart, and fallen to the floor. Her little gloved hand held the revolver that she had taken from the drawer of her husband's desk. Luigi Caracciolo stood rooted to the carpet, believing that he must be mad.
So died Anna Acquaviva, innocent.
The End
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1
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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2
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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3
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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5
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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6
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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11
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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14
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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17
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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18
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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19
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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imminently
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| 迫切地，紧急地 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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28
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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29
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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30
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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31
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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32
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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33
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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35
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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invoking
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| v.援引( invoke的现在分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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37
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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39
slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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40
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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41
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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42
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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45
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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46
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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47
cerebral
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| adj.脑的，大脑的；有智力的，理智型的 | |
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48
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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50
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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51
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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52
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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53
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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54
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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55
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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56
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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57
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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58
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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59
seducer
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| n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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60
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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61
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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62
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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63
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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64
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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65
heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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66
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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67
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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68
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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69
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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70
dastard
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| n.卑怯之人，懦夫；adj.怯懦的，畏缩的 | |
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71
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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72
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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73
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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74
complicate
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| vt.使复杂化，使混乱，使难懂 | |
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embroil
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| vt.拖累；牵连；使复杂 | |
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76
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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77
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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78
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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80
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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81
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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82
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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83
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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84
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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85
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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86
desolating
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| 毁坏( desolate的现在分词 )； 极大地破坏； 使沮丧； 使痛苦 | |
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87
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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88
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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89
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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90
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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92
ceded
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| v.让给，割让，放弃( cede的过去式 ) | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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96
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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98
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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99
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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100
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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101
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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102
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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103
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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104
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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106
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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107
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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108
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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110
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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111
horrify
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| vt.使恐怖，使恐惧，使惊骇 | |
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112
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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113
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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114
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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116
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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117
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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118
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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119
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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120
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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121
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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122
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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124
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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127
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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128
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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129
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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130
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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131
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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132
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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133
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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134
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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135
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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136
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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137
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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138
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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139
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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140
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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141
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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